He saw them.
They’d been watching the skies for the threat. Chimera were winged creatures―they would come from the skies.
Except they hadn’t.
They were surrounded. Crowe counted at least twelve of the beasts, prowling on the ice, in among the ships. There would be a leader, and the rest would await its signal and attack as one. Crowe reached for the horn at his waist. He brought it to his lips and blew.
Its long mournful blast pierced the air like a knife.
“To arms, to arms! Attack from below, look to the ice!”
Men’s shouts came from the longships. Torches were lit, flaming lights bobbed around the decks. Everywhere men grabbed weapons, muttering rushed prayers.
“Archers! Fire at will, chimera on the ice!” Crowe bellowed at his men. He could see his men aiming at the shadows below. Some had prepared fire arrows, their flaming points of death lighting up the sides of the ships as they tore into the chimera below.
As one, the chimera flung themselves at the longships. Their teeth flashed in the torchlight, their wings tearing at the frigid air, lifting their muscular bodies from the ice. Gods, they were fast―Crowe watched as bounded across the ice, all teeth and bloodied claw. His warriors stood side by side brandishing steel, bellowing war cries―Crowe knew that none of these men would run, even when their brothers were cut down. These men lived for violence. They were in their element.
Three chimera landed on the nearest ship. Four more landed on Crowe’s ship. He raised his blade and screamed to the gods of war to lend him strength. The nearest chimera was tearing into several of his men nearby, a flaming arrow protruding from its flank. It had already killed two men, and a third lay wounded, sword arm shredded to the bone.
Crowe felt battle lust course through him. It was a joyous feeling, a tide of anticipation followed by a burst of energy. He charged at the beast, bringing his sword down into its rear leg. His steel bit deep and met bone, and Crowe twisted the blade, slashing sideways and feeling flesh give. The beast’s leg flopped, useless. The chimera swung around and snapped at him, narrowly missing his flank.
Crowe saw movement on his right but concentrated on the chimera in front of him. This would be a fight to the death. He took a step back and feinted as the chimera counter-attacked, its teeth snapping dead air. Crowe threw himself on the deck, rolling under the beast, jarring his left shoulder but managing to keep his sword raised, slicing into the beast’s belly.
The chimera’s guts spilled onto the deck, covering his face and arms. He struck out wildly, burying his blade deep. He swore, blinking through the gore, the deck slick below him. He slithered left and right, thrusting and slashing. Finally, the chimera let out a terrible scream. A deluge of blood pulsed onto Crowe, and the beast collapsed.
Crowe lay panting and stared at the night sky. Lights flashed above, lights he didn’t understand, scores of lights . . .
Fire arrows.
The projectiles rained down on the ships. A withering attack: nothing could survive such an onslaught. The hiss of arrow feathers filled his ears. He held his breath and waited to die.
Arrows slammed into the deck around him. They hit the chimera’s body, they hit the other ships. He heard savage cries of the beasts on the other ships. The sounds of fighting dimmed then stopped. A few seconds of silence was followed by the shouts and cheers of his men.
Crowe opened his eyes. He was alive, breathing. He looked at the dead chimera beside him, its eyes glazed, its fangs gleaming in the flickering light. He lifted himself from the deck and stood, looking around. The four ships were locked in the ice as before, his men standing, defiant.
The chimera were silent. The arrows had somehow found their marks―impossible. Understanding grew in the pit of his stomach. He turned and looked at the ice.
There, on its pitted surface, knelt a lone figure. Nuzum Mir, his shoulders hunched, his arms raised to the sky. His words carried softly on the wind―warlock’s words.
Words of magic. Of death.
Crowe licked his lips. The taste of metal hung in the air.
Strange how magic always smelled like death.
Chapter 12: Silver Eyes
Ae’fir stared at Eriu.
“What do you mean? Silver eyes?”
Eriu shifted uncomfortably. “Our journey out of the Banishment. Your body has undergone a transformation from shade to flesh. You took off the visor before the process was complete. Your eyes . . . they’re now part-shade, part-flesh.”
“But I can see you. I see normally, my eyes feel the same.”
“That’s good, Ae’fir. We need to be careful―to others you’ll look different. Your eyes will mark you out in this world. I’ll place a minor illusion around your face. It’ll hide the silver to those who might see; however, anger or fear in the beholder will throw off the illusion and then your silver eyes will be plain enough.” Eriu spoke softly.
“Do what you have to, dreamcaster, our work here is too important.” He closed his eyes and waited. After several whispered words and hand movements, Eriu breathed deeply.
“It is done, Ae’fir, you may open your eyes.”
Ae’fir blinked and looked at Eriu. The dreamcaster’s face remained impassive.
“Well?”
“Not my best work, but it will suffice,” Eriu said.
“What do you mean, not your best work?” Ae’fir asked, concern edging his voice.
“I was hoping for green, but your eyes are blue-gray.”
Ae’fir sighed, shrugging. “I’ll live with it. I feel stronger. The hilphil’s helped. We have work to do. Where is this crone to be found? She has knowledge of Scalibur.”
They looked around. The Screaming Mountains lay ahead, a huge shattered vista of rock faces and rifts.
Eriu shifted his feet. “This is where the hunt begins. There are three crones in Dal Riata. One in these mountains, one on the island of Inis Cealtra, and one whose location is lost to memory. Each has a role to play in the rebirth of the Aes Sidhe. They were left as a living foothold of our race in this world, ghosts of our memory, so to speak. Our tradition lives through the spoken word―they are our throats in this world, our bridge to the power of the past.”
Ae’fir allowed Eriu’s words to wash over him. He listened, echoes of Eynhallow returning to him. He heard the Maidens’ whispering.
Ae’fir, follow the wind. Follow the Shewind’s tail as she diminishes. She’ll lead you to the ancient barrow and the crone within. Take care, for she is well protected at the heart of the mountains. Find the heart of the mountains and you will find the crone.
Ae’fir turned to Eriu.
“I know, I heard . . . We are connected, remember?” Eriu said.
Ae’fir nodded. “Let’s follow the wind then.” He stooped, cupping soil in his hand and throwing it into the air, letting the wind take it.
Eriu let out a strange hum and the dirt hung, suspended in the air, before sweeping toward a visible cleft in the distant rock face.
“We have the crone’s scent. Let’s track her and get this thing done.” Ae’fir strode off toward the crags.
They moved quickly. The gradient was steep and they were out of breath by the time they reached the crags. The day was young, the sun still rising.
The cleft looked like a wound in the mountainside. It was slick with moisture―a channel for rainwater, a conduit for wind. A draft emanated from the cleft. It was larger than he had thought. Two chariots abreast could easily pass with room to spare. Ae’fir did not stop, did not break pace―he knew Eriu was behind and that the crone was somewhere up ahead at the heart of the mountains.
As Ae’fir entered the cleft, he felt the temperature drop. The atmosphere seemed to shift; these mountains were ancient, the bones of the Erthe. He strode on, noticing the steepening ground. A tumble of boulders lay ahead―they’d have to climb. Ae’fir started up over broken rock and boulders. His feet slipped and he fell, landing heavily, his hands and arms grazed and
bruised as they grappled the hard granite. He cursed as he steadied himself, blood oozed from his fingertips.
Hours passed, Ae’fir’s muscles burned. He had climbed a good way, but there was always more, a crack of sky always out of reach, far above. He pushed and reached into his heart, his ancestral memory, and felt a different kind of strength flood through him. He felt the wrath of his people, felt their anger in exile. He drew on this bitterness, his hatred for the Nephilim and for those that followed, those that had dared take their sacred lands. Those that had taken Dal Riata.
He blinked. He was there, at the top of the mountain, peering down into the cleft. He reached up and clambered out, standing on a granite slab. The wind pulled at his hair, cooling his skin. His breathing was ragged and his muscles ached. This was not like the Banishment―this hurt was real. But despite everything, Ae’fir’s heart sang. He was alive, he was Aes Sidhe . . . and he was standing in the promised land of Dal Riata.
The elation passed, and Ae’fir looked down and saw Eriu catching up, scaling the last dozen feet of the cleft. This dreamcaster was more than he seemed. Perhaps the image Eriu projected was false too―maybe he only allowed people to see what he wanted. This man is part-dream, part-magic, part-shadow.
“You flatter me Ae’fir,” Eriu said, grappling with the last few handholds. He hauled himself up over the remaining boulders and stood, panting, beside Ae’fir.
Ae’fir’s lip curled. “I forgot . . . you’re in my head. This is new to me―you must forgive any unguarded thoughts I may have. It’s a dark place inside my head.”
“Most heads are dark places. Hearts, however, are usually places of light and hope. Yours is no different, my lord,” Eriu nodded.
Ae’fir gave a small smile. “It gets cold when you stop,” he said, shivering. “The Shewind calls us on, are you up for more of this?”
“Lead on my lord, my new body seems . . . young.”
Aye, a good word, young . . .
It described well how Ae’fir felt. Young, full of hope. He realized that the Maidens had taken a gamble sending him to do this work, they’d only had enough power to send two souls. Two souls bearing the hopes of their entire civilization. He pushed these thoughts to the back of his mind . . . that way lay fear and doubt. He would choose hope.
A sudden gust shook him out of his reverie. The terrain had opened and the Shattered Mountains lay stretched out on either side as far as the eye could see. Shadows were collecting among the rocks―the day was waning. They had been a long time in the cleft. Night would soon fall. Ae’fir strode along the crag to another series of outcrops.
The next few hours passed in a blur. Night descended and stars appeared. Wolves howled in the distance. It was cold, but as long as he kept moving, he stayed warm. Eriu was there behind him, his shadow.
The Screaming Mountains lived up to their name: the Shewind tore through the crags and buttresses, keening and moaning. Light from the stars and the quarter moon bathed the mountainside. Ae’fir’s vision was clear.
A silver lining to my silver eyes perhaps?
The Shewind tugged him on, enticing, teasing. He imagined it as a beautiful woman pulling at his heartstrings. The Shewind, coming only once a year, crossed all dimensions, and brought with it change, death, and life.
Change.
He too would bring change. He’d open that door, kick it down and let the light in.
He realized suddenly that he’d run out of rock―he had reached the snowy ridgeline. Only empty space stretched on ahead, a void against the silver light. It was a huge area of broken rock, snow, and scattered lochans. The Screaming Mountains were inhospitable, bare, and broken.
Then he saw it: a barrow a few miles ahead dug into a side valley. A tree stood on top of the barrow, its leaves luminescent, glowing delicately in the night like a beacon. Ae’fir’s heart skipped a beat―he had found the rowan tree. This was where the Shewind was leading him―the crone’s resting place. They were almost there.
Scalibur would be his.
He heard rocks falling and, from behind him, a breathless voice.
“Take care my lord, the tree will be protected. It is a sacred place guarded by magic. We need to proceed with caution. We don’t know how our ancestors screened this place against the Nephilim. It wasn’t found . . . and for good reason.”
“I can see the tree, but I’m seeing with Aes Sidhe eyes. The Nephilim would be blind to such Erthe beauty. I’ll know if danger lurks there. Come, follow me Eriu.”
Ae’fir teetered on the ridge for a moment before launching downhill, taking great strides, gathering momentum. Hope sang in his heart―he heard the Shewind whispering, encouraging him. Eriu’s caution was lost on the wind.
When Ae’fir’s feet touched the valley floor, he felt success within reach.
Something stopped him in his tracks. The sacred rowan tree lay nearby, as clear as day. He waited. Finally, he saw them: blurred shapes at the edge of the hidden valley.
It didn’t add up. This was wrong. He flicked his eyes back and forward, scanning the ridge.
Then he saw.
The Nephilim had found the sacred tree. They were here―at least twenty giants lurking at the valley’s edge, surrounding the barrow.
Ae’fir stood still, staring at the beasts. None of them moved.
Eriu crept up behind him. “I see them too. The crone has locked them in time. She’s kept them at bay all these years. Anything we do could break her spell, could wake these Nephilim. Believe me, we don’t want to wake twenty Nephilim . . . they’d tear us apart.”
“Too late, Eriu my friend,” Ae’fir pointed. “Look.”
On the far side of the valley, one of the giants began to move.
Chapter 13: Keeper of the Flame
Sive froze.
No―this was not part of the deal. The crone would not have her eyes.
“You have hazel eyes, much like mine used to be. Hazel, full of life. But it was so long ago. Come here, whisper your name. I can taste you―you are sweet as spring, fresh too. Do not listen to the other voices, do not change your mind. They whisper lies.” Sive tried to back away from the crone but she couldn’t move. Her feet and head were held by the crone’s words. They had power―she felt them caress her skin. She could not tear her eyes away from the amber flame and the crone, the keeper of the flame.
“But you’re unsure, timid. There’s not been much trust in your life, only pain. Pain is good―it teaches lessons, gives you armor, lets you see through trickery. This is why you’re afraid. Well, come here and let me see. Who is it you trust the most in your young, miserable life? Who’s shown you love, respect? Who has sheltered your soul? Ah, I see. Yes, the one whose spirit walks among the stars, the one who is crushed by her body’s failings. You friend, your only friend, the Truth Seer.”
Leave Orphir out of this. How do you know of her? She’s as a sister to me. Sive kept her thoughts to herself but felt her blood boil with shame and anger.
“She’s more to you than a friend, isn’t she? What are you hiding? Oh yes, I see, I understand now. You have given her your heart and she has given you hers. How tragic, how noble. Well, I do need your eyes and your steel to lift the curse from Inis Cealtra. Here, let me help you relax. I’ll bring Orphir to the table, she will help change your mind.”
The crone shook her head, thin strands of hair dangling from her scalp. Her ragged robe barely hid her skeletal body.
Sive stared at the crone’s face, her eyes wide. Slowly, the crone’s features blurred and changed. A familiar and beloved face stared back.
Orphir. But how?
Sive reached out to the image―the lie―to test it, to touch it. The familiar face, true to the last detail, drowned her in warmth. Her fear receded.
“Orphir. What are you doing here? How has this crone entrapped you?”
Orphir stared at Sive, her unseeing eyes somehow reaching across to this dark chamber beneath the earth.
Sive, my heart, my light
, you must let this crone lift the curse from the island. She needs your eyes and your steel. Give them to her. She will return the island to the Aes Sidhe. You’ve come far and you are so close―the curse can be lifted, but you need to give her what she asks for.
Sive’s chin trembled. “But why is she tethered to these pillars? Why is she a prisoner here? What has gone before?”
Orphir’s precious face smiled reassuringly.
She is the Keeper of the Flame, left here by the last few Aes Sidhe before the Banishment. She serves as a gate, a conduit to allow them to return to this land when the conditions are right. And they are right now. Go on, reach out to the crone . . . touch her, feel her truth, the truth that runs through her bones. Ignore the doubt in your mind. Trust me, trust the crone, trust your part in history.
Sive wanted to resist, she knew she was being spun a lie, but the lie was so good. She felt the truth, she felt the lie.
“Yes, Orphir. I’ll do as you say.”
Sive reached out, touching the crone’s shoulder. The woman’s frail body trembled and she groaned. Orphir’s image flickered but remained―smiling, beautiful, encouraging.
“Come to me,” the crone whispered. “Lean into me, your forehead to mine. It will be easier this way.”
Sive came forward. The flame in the amber burned bright, growing. Sive closed her eyes, bringing her forehead to the crone’s. They touched, and Sive felt the crone’s dry skin and the skull beneath. The flesh was cold and solid, like marble. The scent of decay hung around her like a shroud, and other voices whispered in the room’s dark corners. There were others in this sacred space witnessing the exchange.
Sive’s legs buckled. Something held her up and took her eyes. She gasped as a lancinating pain shot through her head. Her eyelids fluttered.
The crone sighed. “Oh, oh, it’s been so long. Thank you, child, thank you. I’d forgotten what it’s like to see.”
The metallic taste of magic filled the air. Sive felt a warm trickle down her leg and realized her bladder had failed her. She could not stop shaking. I have been betrayed. Her breathing was rapid, her face pale.
Aes Sidhe Page 6
